


dawn is coming, open your eyes

by illcallubymine (goodgriefdean)



Category: Unspecified Fandom
Genre: Charmie, Fluff, M/M, hence the street lamps lmao, i love that imagery though!, i was thinking about bergamo, idk man, slash rome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 11:04:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13339926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodgriefdean/pseuds/illcallubymine
Summary: The first time that Timmy finds his way to Armie’s room in the middle of the night is barely a week into filming.





	dawn is coming, open your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Whew! These two have really gotten into my head over the past few weeks. I figured it was time... 
> 
> Title taken from song "Stay Alive" by Jose Gonzalez!
> 
> I'm on tumblr @ illcallubymine !

The first time that Timmy finds his way to Armie’s room in the middle of the night is barely a week into filming. He wakes up in his own bed in a cold sweat. The windows are open, and the white curtains are fluttering in the humid air. He reaches for his phone that rests face down on the nightstand to check the time. 3:00 am. It was a nightmare, he thinks, that woke him up. The dream itself is an indecipherable blur, but Timmy can make out the feelings— dread, embarrassment— clearly enough that he is glad for the haze.

It’s with almost no thought that he throws on a sweater and pads across his room, leaving his own door ajar once he steps out. The hallway between his and Armie’s rooms is long and narrow. The darkness is thick and stuffy, and Timmy wipes at his eyes with his sleeve. As he reaches Armie’s door, the old wood beneath him groans, and he hesitates, wondering what he is about to walk into.

Will Armie be asleep? And if he is, what will Timmy do then? Leave? Cough? It’s 3:00 am. Of course he’ll be asleep. Timmy shakes his head, frustrated, but some tired, desperate part of him reaches out, and before he can stop himself he is opening Armie’s door and stepping inside.

Armie isn’t sleeping. He’s in bed, sitting to one side, reading a book under the yellow light of a tall lamp. 

“Oh,” Timmy says, and Armie turns to him.

“Oh,” Armie repeats, surprised, “what’s up?” He says it in a way that seems to be feigning nonchalance on Timmy’s behalf, and Timmy feels his cheeks heat. 

Only now does he realize that he has no real reason to be here. He has no excuses. He just looks like a crazy person.

“I, um,” he starts. “I was bored?” It comes out as a question, and he mentally reprimands himself. Armie raises his eyebrows. Timmy scratches the back of his neck. “I couldn’t sleep,” he admits, sheepishly. As if even that would give him the right to walk in here. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I can leave.”

“No!” Armie cuts in quickly, startling Timmy. “I mean, no.” More gently this time. “You can stay, we can talk. If you want.”

“Okay,” Timmy says, but he stays still, in his spot by the door, unsure how to move forward from here. 

“Do you want to sit?” Armie asks, patting the bed. 

“Um, sure. Okay.” Timmy crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed, facing away from Armie. He squeezes his eyes shut, humiliation still sitting heavy on his shoulders. He studies the room. The windows in Armie’s room are larger than his, but they’re closed. The stuffiness of the hallway seems to have found a home here, too.

“Do you want to talk?” Armie asks, hesitation clear in his voice. “Is something keeping you up?”

_I had a bad dream,_ is the truth. _It was probably stupid. I don't even remember it. Nothing is keeping me up— not really— nothing but the thought of you, just down the hall._ Timmy fiddles with his watch. He feels silly, childish. “Not really,” he mumbles. “I don’t know.” 

“Hey,” Armie says then, and the softness in his voice goes straight to Timmy’s chest. It makes him ache. “Wanna take a walk?”

Timmy turns to him, and there is a sparkle in Armie’s eyes. “You can borrow my flipflops.”

 

Outside, the streets are empty. It’s a hot night, and there is moistness in the air. Timmy can see tiny water droplets in the light of the street lamps. Their footsteps echo on the cobblestone, and everything— the open air, the slight breeze, the muddy scent of the nearby river— seems to make Timmy feel a little better. A little braver. He walks close to Armie, his hands in his pockets, allowing their arms to brush every so often, feeling a small rush every time they do.

“I’ve been taking walks like this at night almost every day,” Armie says, running a hand along a building to his left.

Timmy sneaks a glance up at him, his eyes catching the neckline of Armie’s white T-shirt, the tan skin of his neck, the soft suggestion of his collarbone through the thin material. “Really?”

Armie nods. “I love the quietness of nighttime here.”

Timmy smiles to himself. “It’s never this quiet in New York, no matter what time it is.”

“Do you miss home?”

Timmy slows his pace, tangling his hands together behind his back, considering. “I love the city,” he says, after a moment. “I know it better than almost anything else. It’s like—,” he shakes his head, feeling Armie turn his gaze on him, “— it’s like such a huge part of who I am. It _is_ who I am. Yeah, I love it.” They slow to a stop in front of a fountain, and Armie sits down on the edge of it, Timmy following suit. “Do I miss it, though?” He asks, mostly to himself. “I’m not so sure.” He looks out at the piazza before them. “It’s been so easy here. To get wrapped up in all of it. I’ve barely even thought of home.”

They sit in silence for a time, comfortable, each in his own world. A nearby street lamp buzzes sporadically. Timmy flicks a mosquito off his knee. 

Armie is the first to speak, and when he does, his voice is quiet. Timid, even, Timmy dares to think. “There’s something special here,” Armie says, gesturing softly at the buildings around them. “All of this, everything. I can feel it.” He turns to Timmy, then. Looks him in the eyes. “I think we’re making something really special here.”

Timmy can only nod in response, because Armie is voicing his own thoughts. He’s felt it from the day he read the screenplay, even more so when he arrived in Crema, and even more so the first time he shook Armie’s hand. Those bright blue eyes. His strong grip. The nervousness at the edge of his confident smile.

 

They walk back to the apartments in silence, but Timmy can see a small smile on Armie’s face out of the corner of his eye, and he can’t help but mirror it. A dim lightness colors the sky now, just a suggestion of dawn, and there is something in the air now— a stillness, maybe, or some sort of reverence— that only shows itself in moments like this. In beginnings of special things, whether these said things are mere days, or something much bigger. In Timmy’s lucky case, he thinks, it is both.

 

“Thank you,” Timmy says, once they are inside and at Armie’s door. His eyes flit downwards, and he feels a warm hand on his shoulder.

“Timmy,” Armie says, gentle yet insistent, ducking his head to catch Timmy’s eye. “You don’t need to thank me. Seriously.” He smiles, reassuring. “If you ever need anything, I don’t care what it is, I’m here. Okay?”

“Okay.” Timmy says. His cheeks heat, but he welcomes the feeling. He toes off Armie’s flipflops, and Armie takes them with a chuckle.

“See you in a few hours,” Armie says. “Try to get some sleep.”

 

Timmy does fall asleep, on top of his covers, shoulder still burning from Armie’s touch, his mind racing with thoughts of buzzing street lamps and warm skin.


End file.
